


Corpus Christi

by Sjukdom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Dark, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Nygmobblepot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/pseuds/Sjukdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was doubtful by nature, good old Eddie. There was no one to confirm his rebirth. And then Oswald stepped out of the woods, out of the smell of rotting grass and rotting flesh, out of the slack water in dried creeks and coagulated brown slimy blood. The woods, where he buried Kristen, the cemetery with soil so sticky nothing and nobody could be extracted from it appeared to be a womb, which kept his redeemer safe for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corpus Christi

**Author's Note:**

> The two epigraphs for this story were taken from Corpus Christi carol, performed by amazing neofolk band Fire + Ice.

_He bore him up, he bore him down,_  
He bore him into an orchard brown.  
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!  
The falcon has borne my mate away. 

Events are not accidental. Every event is a knot in a noose, a link in a long chain. Every event is a cradle for the birth of the next one. Events follow each other like blind infants, able only to touch the textures, smell familiar scents and feel warmth radiating from living bodies, but helpless to see what will come next.

Edward met Kristen and fell in love with her. Her copper head, light flickering from her spectacles, ridiculous surname and her lovely reluctance to fall in love with him, too. He killed for her and confessed it to her. Ed might have been too naïve to think she would be amazed at his attempt to protect her. One that failed – and a man was dead. There was one that succeeded – and Kristen was alive after the carnage at their station. Two results of one deed. But no, most likely he wanted to share his joy from the murder with someone other than his own split mind. And that joy was indeed killing one. Kristen was dead, too. Her copper hair faded to old rust, the light flickered no more, drowning in the abyss of her unseeing eyes. Kristen's ridiculous surname wouldn't appear on any headstone, while Ed was careful enough to bury her in the woods. Bury her and dig out his true self.

These woods should have been a cemetery, a place for the body he was allowed to penetrate once to decay in peace undisturbed. And even with all his magnificent intelligence Edward still couldn't predict that the woods would also turn into a place of birth. Of faith being commenced and pushed out onto the earth. It was an unexpected twist, but somehow it was right, the only ending of the chain possible. The woods devoured Kristen's body and gave him something in return as a sign of their gratitude. It wasn't accidental. It was reasonable and right. Logically, wonderfully, violently right.

Trees in the woods were big and old, their leaves so thick they drank every sound as greedily as they drank water from their roots. The soil was juicy, rich, perfect for hiding away a body. It was inhabited with eternally hungry worms and maggots, which were used to nutritious meals of human flesh and Kristen had some especially tasty parts. Edward's former other self, now a rightful part of him, giggled at that thought. He suspected he wasn't the first to provide for worms' feasts here. The sun was bleak like a polished bone. Wind moaned among the branches and it sounded like dead birds' songs. The wine in his glass tasted of putrid grapes and bile as he toasted with it to the open pharynx of the extemporary grave.

The cemetery, the place for the dead, who never listen and will never care for anything anymore. Free at last. No thoughts, no worries, no doubts. And no faith in anything or anyone. Ed spent there the whole evening, charmed with this tranquility. He should have been satisfied with his success, too, but was slightly worried that his new state might fade away with time. He was doubtful by nature, good old Eddie. There was no one to confirm his rebirth. It wouldn't be seen by anyone and nobody would care. He could wake up some day and everything would be a dream, a fleeting memory of a delusion. Ed walked through the woods, through the headstones in shape of tree-trunks and wished for a sign. A proof that everything was real, a seal for his fate. He walked like a pilgrim, searching blessing. When he finally stopped, it was already dark. The sour wine made him nauseous and his feet were wet and sore from misfit boots. And yet he didn't care.

He didn't care, while he received his sign. The cemetery with soil so sticky nothing and nobody could be extracted from it appeared to be a womb, which kept his redeemer safe for him. Oswald stepped out of the woods, out of the smell of rotting grass and rotting flesh, out of the slack water in dried creeks and coagulated brown slimy blood. He was injured badly, dehydrated, weak. He limped worse than Ed remembered. His shirt was soaked with blood and sweat. For one moment Edward was horrified that the woods refused to accept another corpse and left it wandering aimlessly among the more lucky ones in their graves. No peace, no rest, no freedom. But Oswald was still alive. His breath was visible in the night air, silvery and fragile like ice flowers. He slumped on the ground, unable to defend himself and pleaded for help in a small voice, probably unaware who Edward was.

How much time did Oswald spend here, eaten alive by pain and fever, with trees around whispering to him to give up and lay himself down in a welcoming arms of an earth coffin? The struggle must have cost him all of his remaining energy, flowing out of the wound hour after hour, until he could barely stand. Ed could be anyone, an enemy, a cop, a grim spirit of the woods and Oswald would still have called him for help, forced by despair and excruciation. Luckily, the one he begged was Edward, the new man, the reborn man in need for an omen, approving his new self. And there it was in front of him. The self-named crimson king. The criminal, notorious for his killings, leaving behind Edward's own humble ones. The god, providing himself with sacrifices with his own hands, was in front of him, suffering and dying, left by his followers to be found by a new devoted one.

The revelation. The hand of god. Ed remembered worshipers, drunk with ecstasy of their faith, unable to hold it to themselves. Their bodies shook, their eyes were back in their heads. Foam bubbled in the corners of their mouths and flowed from their lips, while they praised the gods they were addicted to. Ed considered them sick, too impressionable and stupid. Until now, when he received the injection of the same ecstasy himself, when his own personal Jesus he wished for so hard ascended to him from gnawed bare bones and fumes of rotting guts. And that was meant to happen from the very moment he stabbed that cop. To extend that feeling of awe and wonder he would have killed him again and again, turning his bowels into bloody slush.

Silent night, holy night it was. So silent no one could hear them leaving the woods. Oswald's breathing came out in gasps. The rusty smell of blood from his shirt filled Ed's nostrils and made his head spin, like a strong scent of frankincense. His heart was beating right near Edward's own, pumping more blood out of his hurt body, warm and sticky on his hands. The blood of Christ. He carried Oswald's small body, mutilated, sick from cold and hunger. Frail, yet effective tool for the mind willing to take another life. His fingers were clenched in agony of pain and fear, refusing to leave Oswald even in his state of unconsciousness. The body of Christ.

***

_And in that bed there lies a knight,_  
His wounds bleeding both day and night;  
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!  
The falcon has borne my mate away. 

Holy night it was, the one that cleanses the world from its filth and sickness, walking around in shapes of human beings, the one that transforms desperation into hope. Once Edward's flat had been a place of loneliness and bitterness, plastered with imaginary pictures of missed chances, pinned to the walls with chips of broken promises. In attempts to chase away the silence he blew the sounds off the piano's keys like old dust and they hung low in the air, fouling everything, making every breath disgusting. Then Ed and Kristen tried to turn this one-man cell into a love nest, unsuccessfully and without great care. The nest was woven from twigs too thin and dry and patches of simple-colored fabric, torn from the clothes Kristen liked to wear and needled with unsound threads. It's existence took as much time as a blink of an eye. Kristen's death lasted much longer than their happiness or so it seemed to Edward.

In reality, of course, the strangulation took mere minutes. Ed hadn't even noticed the moment, when Kristen's brain shut down due to the lack of oxygen, her heart stopped pumping blood, when her breathing no more made his palm wet and hot. The new whole Edward made a mental note to himself to pay attention to these moments in the future to absorb as much details of the process of dying as possible. In reality Kristen died quickly, but during a few days' search for her body Ed couldn't help thinking that this lasted for hours. Every day of keeping back his other half was another thirty minutes for imaginary Kristen's horrible agony. His flat then was a morgue, where dead bodies became cold and stiff with rigor mortis. Her body couldn't have laid there for long, thanks to his former alter ego, but still the sweet smell of decomposition and bestial stench of bodily fluids released from its insides made his eyes achy every time he went home. At night the morgue morphed into a torture chamber, where Kristen were suffocating endlessly, paralyzed with fear and contempt for his true nature. 

But this was a testing of his faith, preparation for the holy night. He sought and he found and truly his flat was the Lazarus's cave. Where she had died, he would rise again.

Edward came home exhausted, his legs were shaking violently and his arms ached. He breathed hoarsely, swallowing tasteless air hungrily as if his dead lover was willing to take it from him. And from Oswald. Ed carried him all the way from the woods and was now bone-weary. And yet the exhaustion couldn't affect his enthusiasm. He was so excited he even forgot to take off his boots, caked richly with mud and mushy leaves. His guide was with him, solid, palpable and real, not a vain dream or a picture in some holy book. Ed didn't even want to separate Oswald from himself and stood for a while with him still in his arms, swaying and struggling with weakness in his knees. It felt good to have Oswald pressed tightly to his body, so tightly he could bore into him, dissolve under Edward's skin and reach right into his heart to feed from its hot red liquid. He would have gotten better immediately this way.

Ed smiled as his flat spun around him. He could stand like that the whole night long, to hell with weakness of his tired body. Oswald was warm in his hands. Too warm. Hot from temperature. Sweat formed beads on his face and they rolled down the greasy collar of his once fancy shirt. Only this made Edward change his mind and lay Oswald carefully onto his bed. He barely kept himself from falling down next to him. Ed waited until dizziness went away and righted himself. He would do everything right and his redeemer would be strong and powerful again.

In ten days he would come back.

Humming a tune, Edward began to undress Oswald with great care, afraid he could cause more pain to his injured shoulder. Ed imagined that very moment, while he was on the way home and in his mind he was awkward and blushing and felt like a child playing house with a big doll. Right now Ed felt nothing but the dignity of the moment, he was proud with his important role of the carer and his important contribution to his redeemer's well-being. Edward unbuttoned Oswald's shirt, bent over him and felt the light strokes of air he exhaled on his face and Adam's apple. The expensive fabric was wet, blood-stained, dirty and wrinkled; it stuck to the wound and it took Edward a few minutes to gently remove it, without hurting Oswald and causing further blood loss. 

The wound, a tiny crimson pool. Naked flesh, torn apart by the bullet. The stigmata, glowing on his white skin brighter than the bad moon. The mind's eye of the blessed, crying tears of blood. Edward treated it as cautiously as he managed and stood back, admiring his work. Oswald now breathed calmer, forced into even deeper oblivion by the huge amount of painkillers. The trails of blood covered his naked torso like a map of some mysterious land. They were rough to the touch, sticking together the tiny hairs on Oswald's arms. Edward forced himself to go on with his work. No point in staring the whole night. He walked out of the bedroom and returned with warm water and a small towel to wash away the dirt. Ed removed the rest of his clothes, surprised with the vulnerability and frailty of this body, able to perform such brutal things. Oswald looked like a featherless bird of prey in his bareness and openness. One had no idea, what this narrow, small form was capable of. 

More in it than meets the eye, though Edward, wiping away the blood from his chest, the deep red of Caesar's toga. For the first time he mused, whether Oswald would have approved being looked at in that way. Would he be embarrassed with Edward cleaning his body thoroughly, rubbing away all the filth from every part of it? There was certain intimacy in the way he wiped his buttocks, nipples, feet and the delicate skin in his groin with the wet frise of the towel and Oswald seemed not very sympathetic with stranger's touches. Ed hoped he wouldn't be too anxious, when he woke up. He rubbed Oswald's body dry and dressed him in his own sleepwear, too big and loose for him. 

He looked so innocent in it, with blanket tucked around him. Not like a murderer or a heartless ruler, not like the dark Jesus he saw in the woods. Just a man, who looked much younger than his real age, pale from the loss of blood, with a light frown between his eyebrows. Edward sat on the edge of the bed, watching him sleeping, his chest going up and down, small muscles in his face twitching, nostrils flaring with each breath. He was sleepy himself, drunk with weariness and experiences of one single day, but as content as he had ever been. 

The future was bright for him, bright like a splash of blood releasing from an avulsed wound. Oswald would wake healthy, grateful for his help. He would be a mentor for him, a guide on the way, paved with corpses. He would be Edward's new life. His bread and wine. Sanguis Christi. Corpus Christi.


End file.
